Hearing secret harmonies (24 page)

The reference to sounding brass was appropriate, recalling a sole personal memory of the reader, the rebuke administered by our housemaster, his nerves always tried by pupils with strident voices.

‘Don’t shout, Akworth.’ Le Bas had said. ‘It’s a bad habit of yours, especially when answering a question. Try to speak more quietly.’

The habit remained. It seemed to have been no handicap in Sir Bertram’s subsequent career. At one of the closing sentences of the Lesson he hardened the pitch of the utterance. It rang through the nave.

‘For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.’

Giving a final glance round the congregation, he returned to his seat. The striking image of seeing through a glass darkly again brought thoughts of The Devil’s Fingers. Fiona did not appear to be present in the church. She might well have decided to skip the service, just turn up at the reception. In the light of her newly organized life she was unlikely to forgo altogether her brother’s wedding. So far as I knew she was still living at Delavacquerie’s flat, their relationship no less undefined. Her parents were united in agreeing that, whatever the situation, it was preferable to the previous one. The impression was that Roddy and Susan Cutts, perhaps deliberately, had known little enough about the Murtlock period too. The handout issued by them now was that their daughter had taken a room in an Islington flat that belonged to a man who worked, respectably enough, in Donners-Brebner. Poets not playing much Part in Cutts life, Delavacquerie’s business side was more emphasized than the poetic; potential emotional ties with Fiona not envisaged, more probably ignored. Delavacquerie was after all considerably older than their daughter; though, it had to be admitted, so too had been the handsome married electrician. The Wedding March struck up. For some minutes the congregation was penned in while photographers operated at the church door. Outside, we walked with Veronica Tolland towards the car park.

‘Are your kids here? Angus couldn’t get away either. He had to cover a strike. Iris will be at the reception. Fancy fetching up at Stourwater again. I used to go on visitors’ day when I was a child. The park’s open to the public now. My father’s job was in the local town. I expect I’ve often said that – also I was at school with Matilda Donners, when she was a little girl called Betty Updike. Did you hear she’d died?’

‘Apparently been ill for some time. I didn’t know that. I always liked Matilda.’

‘She made quite a career for herself. I don’t know half the people here. Who’s the good-looking black girl with the young Huntercombes. I know – she’s wife of Jocelyn Fettiplace-Jones. His mother was an Akworth. How glad I am I live in London now.’

Like Ted Jeavons, Veronica had taken on the workings of a world rather different from that of her earlier life, without ever in the least wanting to be part. She had always regarded that world, not without a certain enjoyment, from the outside. Now she felt free of it all, except on occasions such as this one, which she liked to attend. In spite of such inherent sentiments, Veronica had come by now to look more than a little like a conventional dowager on the stage.

‘See you later.’

The immediate vision of Stourwater, in thin vaporous April sunshine, was altogether unchanged. On the higher ground, in the shadows of huge contorted oaks, sheep still grazed. Down in the hollow lay the Castle; keep; turrets; moat; narrow causeway across the water, leading to the main gate with double portcullis. All seemed built out of cardboard. Its realities had in any case belonged more to the days of Sir Magnus Donners, rather than to the later Middle Ages, when the Castle’s history had been obscure. The anachronistic black swans were gone from the greenish waters of the moat. A large noticeboard directed to a car park. Round about the Castle itself playing fields came into view.

‘What games would they be?’

‘Net-ball, hockey, I suppose.’

We parked, then crossed the causeway on foot. The reception was taking place in the Great Hall, now the school’s Assembly Room. Armoured horsemen no longer guarded the door. Forms had been pushed back against the walls, a long table for refreshments set across the far end. In place of Sir Magnus’s Old Masters – several of doubtful authenticity according to Smethyck, and others with a taste for picture attribution – hung reproductions of the better known French Impressionists. We joined the queue, a long one, formed by guests waiting to meet bride and bridegroom. The two families had turned out in force. There must have been a hundred or more guests at least. We took a place far back in the line, working our way up slowly, as Roddy, relic of his parliamentary days, liked to talk for a minute or two to everyone he knew personally. When at last we found ourselves greeting the newly married pair, their closer relations in support, I felt this no moment to remind Sir Bertram Akworth that we had been at school together. There would in any case have been no opportunity. Susan Cutts drew us aside.

‘Come away from them all for a moment. There’s something I must tell you both.’

Leaving her husband to undertake whatever formalities were required, Susan was evidently impatient to reveal some piece of news, good or ill was not clear, which greatly excited her.

‘Have you heard about Fiona?’

‘No, what?’

One was prepared for anything. My first thought was that Fiona had returned to Murtlock and the cult.

‘She’s married.’

I thought I saw how things had at last fallen out.

‘To Gibson Delavacquerie?’

Susan looked puzzled by the question. The name did not seem to convey anything to her, certainly not that of their daughter’s new husband. Susan’s words plainly stated that Fiona possessed a husband.

‘You mean her landlord? No, not him. What could have made you think that, Nick?’

So far from Susan considering Delavacquerie to rate as a potential suitor, she was momentarily put off her stride at the very strangeness of such a proposition. Any emotional undercurrents of the Delavacquerie association must have completely passed by the Cutts parents, unless Susan was doing a superb piece of acting, which was most unlikely.

‘No – it’s an American. I believe you know him, Nick? He’s called Russell Gwinnett.’

Roddy, disengaging himself from the last guest for whom he felt any serious responsibility at the moment, was unable to keep away from all share in imparting such news.

‘Wasn’t there some sort of contretemps years ago about Gwinnett? I believe there was. That fellow Widmerpool was mixed up with it, I have an idea. I used to come across Widmerpool sometimes in the House. Not too bad a fellow, even if he was on the other side. He’s sunk without a trace, if ever a man did. I can’t remember exactly what happened. Gwinnett seems a nice chap. He’s a bit older than Fiona, of course, but I don’t see why that should matter.’

Susan agreed heartily.

‘In his forties. I always liked older men myself. Anyway they’re married, so there it is.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Yesterday, actually.’

‘No warning?’

‘You can imagine what it was like to be told this, with Sebastian’s wedding taking place the following day.’

‘They just turned up man and wife?’

‘Fiona brought Mr Gwinnett – I suppose I should call him Russell now – along to see us the same afternoon. She seems very pleased about it. That’s the great thing. They both do. He doesn’t talk much, but I never mind that with people.’

‘Have they gone off on a honeymoon?’

‘They’re just going to do a short drive round England, then Russell has to go back to America. He’s got a little car he dashes about in all over the country, doing his research. He’s a don at an American university, as you probably know. They’re coming to the reception. Fiona suggested they should do that herself. Wasn’t it sweet of her? They haven’t arrived yet. At least I haven’t seen them.’

Susan, in spite of determined cheerfulness, was showing signs of nervous strain. That was not to be wondered at. I mentioned – less from snobbish reasons than avoidance of cross-questioning about Gwinnett in other directions – that he was collaterally descended from one of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Roddy showed interest. At least he was deflected from closer enquiry into the subject of what exactly had happened to connect his new son-in-law with Widmerpool.

‘Is he indeed? I must say I took to Russell at first sight I’d like to have a talk with him about the coming Presidential election, and a lot of other American matters too.’

‘I wish Evangeline were still here,’ said Susan. ‘She might know something about the Gwinnetts. We’ll talk about it all later. I’ll have to go back and do my stuff now. There are some more people arriving… darling, how sweet of you to come … lovely to see you both …’

There was no time to contemplate further Fiona’s marriage to Gwinnett, beyond making the reflection that, if he had done some dubious things in his time, so too had she. Leaving the threshold of the reception, we moved in among the crowd that filled the Great Hall. Most of the guests had chosen to wear conventional wedding garments, some of the younger ones letting themselves go, either with variations on these, or trappings that approximated to fancy dress. The children, of whom there was quite a large collection, scuffled about gaily, the whole assemblage making a lively foreground to the mediaeval setting. Hugo, Norah, and Blanche Tolland had all turned up, Norah grumbling about the superabundance of Alford relations present.

‘Susie was always very thick with the Alford cousins. I hardly knew any of them. They look a seedy lot, large red faces and snub noses.’

‘I find them charming,’ said Hugo. ‘Look here, what’s all this about Fiona marrying an American? The last thing I heard was that she had given up all those odd friends of hers Norah was once so keen on, and was working hard at something or other in Islington.’

Norah was not prepared to be saddled with an admiration for Murtlock.

‘I wasn’t keen on Fiona’s last lot of friends. I’ve been saying for ages she’s hung about much too long doing that sort of thing. If she wants to get married, I’m glad it’s an American. It will give her the chance of a new kind of life, if she goes to live there. Somebody said you knew him, Nick?’

‘Yes, I know him.’

There was no point in trying to explain Gwinnett to Norah. In any case, given the most favourable circumstances, I was not sure I could explain him to anyone, including myself. The attempt was not demanded, because we were joined by Umfraville, carrying his rubber-tipped stick in one hand, a very full glass of champagne in the other. As prelude to an impersonation of some sort, he raised the glass.

‘Here’s to the wings of love,
May they never lose a feather,
Till your little shoes, and my big boots,
Stand outside the door together.’

Hugo held up a hand.

‘We don’t want a scandal, Dicky, after all these years as brothers-in-law.’

Before Umfraville could further elaborate whatever form of comic turn contemplated, his own attention was taken up by a grey-haired lady touching his arm.

‘Hullo, Dicky.’

Umfraville clearly possessed not the least idea who was accosting him. The lady, smartly dressed, though by no means young, might at the same time have been ten years short of Umfraville’s age. She was tall, pale, distinguished in appearance, very sad.

‘I’m Flavia.’

‘Flavia.’

Carefully balancing his stick and champagne, Umfraville embraced her.

‘How horrid of you not to recognize me.’

Umfraville swept that aside.

‘Flavia, this is an altogether unexpected delight. Does your presence at our nephew’s wedding mean that you and I are now related – in consequence of the marriage of these young people? How much I hope that, Flavia.’

The grey-haired lady – Stringham’s sister – laughed a rather tinkly laugh.

‘Dicky, you haven’t changed at all.’

Flavia Wisebite – it was to be assumed she still bore the name of her American second husband, Harrison Wisebite (like Veronica Tolland’s first, alcoholic, long departed) – laughed again tremulously. Her own affiliations with Umfraville dated back to infinitely distant days; Kenya, the Happy Valley, surroundings where, according to Umfraville himself – he had emphasized with a certain complacency his own caddishness in revealing the information – he had been the first to seduce her. That possibility was more credible than Umfraville’s follow-up, that he (rather than the reprehensible Cosmo Flitton, married to Flavia not long after) could be true father of Flavia’s daughter, Pamela. Pamela Flitton, it might be thought, carried all the marks of being Cosmo Flitton’s daughter. Age had done little or nothing to impair Umfraville’s capacities for routine banter, if he happened to be in the right mood. He continued to press the possibility of a remote family tie emerging from the Cutts/Akworth union that would connect Flavia Wisebite with himself.

‘Bride or bridegroom? Come on, Flavia. I want to be able to introduce you as my little cousin.’

‘No good, Dicky. I’m not a blood relation. I’m Clare Akworth’s godmother. Her mother’s a dear friend of mine. We live in cottages almost next door to each other, practically in walking distance of Stourwater.’

Flavia Wisebite began to narrate her past history to Umfraville in her rapid trembling voice; how nervous diseases had prostrated her, she had been in and out of hospital, was now cured. In spite of that assurance she still seemed in a highly nervous state. Umfraville, less tough in certain respects than in his younger days, was beginning to look rather upset himself at all this. No doubt he felt sorry for Flavia, but had reached a time of life when, if he came to a wedding, he hoped not to be harassed by having poured into his ears the troubles of a former mistress. His face became quite drawn as he listened. I should have been willing to escape myself, scarcely knowing her, and feeling in no way responsible. Before withdrawal were possible, Umfraville manoeuvred me into the conversation. Flavia Wisebite at once recalled the sole occasion when we had met in the past.